


The Tarot Reader

by QueanBysshe



Category: Hercules (1997)
Genre: Adventure, Apollo loves tiny cocks, Biting, Blood, M/M, Prophecy, Tarot, Trans Male Character, Vampires, apotheothenai, god fucking, magical sex venom, theophilia, which means Apollo loves him a transboy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2019-07-08 10:54:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15928973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueanBysshe/pseuds/QueanBysshe
Summary: Hercules has an encounter with a strange,northernoracle, who doesn't breathe strange mists and fall into a trance, but uses a deck of cards, each painted with a strange, dream-like image. But of the few words the oracle knows in their language, most of them are the names of the Gods. Why? And is it true that Apollo would want nothing to do with a soft, strange little northern boy? Or is it mortal folly?





	1. Card VII: The Chariot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Unorthodox means may be necessary to achieve your goals._

A pale stranger from the north was not so odd a sight in the city; nor was the strange and bleating language he spoke in. What was strange was his hair—the curls were as vivid as a jungle bird—and that he was _soft_. The priest at the door to the temple of Apollo stopped him, frowning deeply and denying him entrance, for this latter fact.

As it happened, this is exactly what Hercules saw, was someone being denied entrance, told they were not good enough. The boy looked unknowing of the insults paid him, and turned away, going back down the steps. Hercules changed the path he was taking to intercept.

‘Good morning,’ he said to the stranger. ‘I couldn’t help but notice you were trying to get into the temple. Can I help?’

The boy looked up at him, perhaps a little stupidly by some accounts; but then again, he was foreign, and may not speak the language very well. He reached in his shoulder bag and pulled out a small box the size of his hand. He began to explain, in stilted words, half understandable, muttering frustratedly to himself in his own language. Hercules understood enough—he’d caught the words ‘Apollo’ and the gesture toward the heart, and the tapping of the cards while saying ‘oracle’ was enough.

‘You’re an oracle?’ Hercules said, eyes wide, ‘and they won’t let you into the temple?’

The boy shrugged, saying two words in a descending tone that Hercules could tell the meaning of by implication. He sat down on the temple steps, and pointed at the cards. 

‘Cards?’ Hercules said. The boy burst into a smile.

‘Cards!’ he said. ‘Tarot,’ he said, sitting across from Hercules, one step down, and opened the box, taking out a stack of very intricately-painted cards, very slick and shiny looking. He started to shuffle them, and then set the deck between them, taking a stack of cards off the top, and setting it beside, and then putting it back, pointing at Hercules’ left hand. When Hercules gave it to him, he guided it to the deck. ‘You,’ he said. Hercules copied what he’d done, and the boy put what had been the bottom on the top, and took the stack back, laying down seven cards in an arc.

He flipped over the first one, which had an image of a man in colourful strange clothing, about to step over the edge of a cliff. The next, above it, was a long-bladed sword. The third was an old cloaked man carrying a box that emitted rays of light. The apex of the arc was a warrior covered in armour from head to toe, carrying a long-bladed sword and riding an armoured horse. Then, a man juggling an arrow, a coin with a star upon it, a cup, and a stick. This made the oracle laugh, and tap the card. ‘Hermes,’ he said, with confidence. The next card was—Hercules drew in a breath.

‘Shh,’ the oracle said, patting his hand. ‘Shhh.’ He said some words in his own tongue, repeated a few, in soothing tones.

The card showed Charon, carrying a scythe and upon a horse, decapitated heads at his feet. Yet the oracle was unworried, so Hercules tried to trust him.

The last card showed the sun, below which were two naked children dancing together. ‘Apollo!’ the oracle said happily.

Hercules smiled. ‘I wish you could tell me what the rest of it means,’ he said. He’d not ever visited an oracle—his friend Cassandra had put him off the whole tradition, really. But the interaction had drawn a little crowd, which is what Hercules had wanted; the oracle had enough attention for his hair, but Hercules always liked to use his status to help people. If the mighty Hercules was visiting this oracle, then others would trust him, regardless of his soft arms or long barbaric hair.

The oracle studied the cards for a long while again, and tapped the card at the apex. ‘You,’ he said to Hercules. ‘You.’ He put his finger to his temple. ‘Your.’

‘My… oh my thoughts? Oh!’ Hercules looked at the card a little closer, but didn’t touch it. ‘So… me…’ he pointed at the card flipped after it. ‘Hermes?’

‘Hermes,’ the oracle said firmly. Hercules pointed at the last card.

‘Apollo.’

‘Apollo.’

‘Charon?’ Hercules said hesitantly, pointing at the card between. The oracle shook his head firmly.

‘Hermes Psychopompos,’ he said. Hercules sat and looked at the card a while.

‘Are… why did you draw him like that, then?’ Hercules wondered.

‘Hermes psychopompos,’ the oracle said, firmly.

Hercules went back to the apex. ‘Hercules.’

The oracle paused, then, and looked at him. ‘...Herakles?’ he said, peering a little at his face.

‘Yes.’

The eyes widened. ‘Wow,’ he said, and Hercules had a feeling it didn’t really _mean_ anything, per se, it just voiced shock. The oracle looked back down at the cards, more carefully, touching them here and there, and taking the deck and flipping another card over, putting it in the middle. It showed a cup. Another card was laid atop it, showing a single coin with a star on it. The oracle’s brows raised, and he muttered something to himself, flipping over a third card, laying this atop it. It showed a staff, alone. The oracle laughed, looking heavenward and saying something, gesturing as one did when speaking to someone. Hercules thought him mad, but oracles were; until he realised the boy wasn’t just speaking to the sky generally, he was looking at where a sunbeam was lancing through the buildings. He wasn’t talking to _himself_ at all.

He reached into his bag and got out a little tiny stack of thin papyrus that was sewn together on one side, and a stylus, writing something down as he glanced at the cards, then gathered the cards and fanned them, looking through them for particular ones, which he put on the top and bottom, then put them back in the little box, and the box back into his bag as he stood up.

The crowd started to speak, then.

‘I want to go next, please!’

‘I was here before you!’

Hercules knew this would turn into a riot sooner rather than later. ‘Form a queue,’ he said, over the crowd, ‘please. And if anyone can translate for this boy, he’s northern?’

That silenced them. The boy hummed to himself, looking a little like he might wander off.

This was about when Megara decided to find him again, her bag full of fruit. She made her way up the steps of the temple with all the ease of a long time city-dweller who could hip-check people into the next city-state. ‘Hiya, Wonderboy. Who’s the popinjay?’

The oracle was looking at Meg, and smiled, bowing his head and casting his eyes down briefly, murmuring something in a respectful tone. Meg looked charmed, leaning on her other hip _and answering in the same language_ . The oracle _lit up_ , beaming and chattering excitedly. Meg talked to him for a few minutes, and he gestured excitedly at Hercules, opening his tiny papyrus thing and telling her the thing he’d just prophesyed with the cards (presumably, Hercules heard his name a lot). When they were done, Meg looked at Hercules.

‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘Apparently you’re at the start of quite the adventure. And here we thought we were going to settle down. Also, he says the priest at the door turned him away because he wasn’t Apollo’s type, and he _knows_ that’s a lie.’ She folded her arms, eyeing the doors, where more than the door attendant were now gathered, eyeing the crowd and the oracle both in a way that Meg knew boded ill.

‘Hey, hey, where are you going?’ Hercules said, as he realised the oracle was heading away, down the steps.

‘He’s finding a different temple, one that isn’t run by mortals,’ Meg translated, following. She was game for this, northerners were entertaining, and she’d never met a northern _oracle_ , before. Why was his hair like that? How did he _get_ his hair like that?

::This is stupid, I don’t need a stupid temple I can just sit in the sun and worship Him…::

Meg wasn’t translating, but she could understand the angry rant in more ways than one. When they got to a spot where the sun shone on a little patch of flowers, the oracle stopped, and sat down, and crossed his wrists, hands framing his face, and face upturned to the sun, and sat quietly. Hercules tugged on Meg’s hand a little.

‘Meg… we should go.’

‘Aw, c’mon, Wonderboy,’ Meg said, ‘what if the kid needs a translator?’

‘When did you learn that tongue, anyway?’

‘I didn’t.’ Meg said, smirking. ‘I made out with Hermes once.’ She looked at her nails as she said it, enjoying the way you could almost _hear_ Hercules blushing.


	2. Card XVIV: The Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You have found Paradise._

Apollo’s attention was caught by the hair like a rainbow, the _devotion_ , single-minded and strong, and the strange cards. He shone a little brighter on the mortal, and called out to the four winds, asking for information. The North wind had nothing to say, but the West… the West brought a song, brought the smell of sweet-tart fruit and desert dust and salt spray and ficus trees, the howl of strange wolves and the scent of molten rock and ash. 

And singing, ethereal and then growling; now crying as sadly as a wolf, now roaring like a warrior’s rage, now triumphant, now grieving. 

_Beautiful_ voice. Apollo wanted to hear more than Zephyr’s memory of it. He resolved to find the mortal after dark, when he was free to do as he pleased. 

He found the boy sleeping as a guest in Hercules’ house, buried under furs to keep off the cold. Upon a moment’s reflect, however, those furs were shifted and there was movement, and little whispered words, half-phrases. Apollo’s hips woke to that, and he moved toward the bed, leaning down. 

‘Little one.’ The words fell from his lips, the name the mortal wanted from him. There was a soft gasp, and Apollo pulled away the rabbit fur covering that face, eyes blue as the summer sky peering up at him. 

‘Oh,’ said the boy. ‘Oh, oh, it’s _you_. Sir,’ he said, hurriedly, struggling to move his hands, to close his legs. ‘Um. I was…’ 

‘I know,’ Apollo said, amused as he leaned over his acolyte, pulled the furs down. 

‘I don’t have a--’ 

‘Flushed, twitching, little—oh,’ Apollo said, seeing it. ‘ _So_ small,’ he breathed, stroking with a fingertip the furled little cock, barely as long as one joint of his finger. So furled and shy in its prepuce, scrolled like a flourish of mist. Below lay an opening already wet and slick and ready, and he moved over the boy, delighting in the idea that he’d get to completely sheathe between his thighs. ‘A more perfect kouros has never been made...’ 

‘Thank you,’ the boy said, smiling with a curl of mischief. ‘I found my own sculptor, for the top bit.’ 

Apollo saw the scar there, and chuckled, tracing it with his fingertips. It was surgically precise, except on one side, where medicine had done too well and sabotaged itself. He healed what the mortal healer could not, and moved between those soft thighs. 

‘I’m not too fat for your tastes?’ the mortal asked, and Apollo’s appreciation for the boy was shaken as he looked up into those wry blue eyes, those quirked brows. ‘That’s what your priest said, I’m pretty sure.’ 

Apollo’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’ 

‘I tried to go to your temple today, and leave an offering, but they wouldn’t let me in. I couldn’t understand the words, but the tone was easy enough. Not good enough. Not _masculine enough_ , for Apollo. I know what Greece means by that, and I know what I look like. I’m too fat and I’m not muscly enough to be a real kouros.’ 

Apollo made a disgusted noise. ‘It’s true that I find athletes beautiful, but for anyone to think I would not find _you_ beautiful--!’ 

‘You—you really think I’m beautiful.’ It wasn’t a question—the boy’s eyes were filled with tears, and his voice was hushed. For all his bravado and cheek he, like so many mortals, did not believe it. Apollo smiled like the sun down at him, and leaned down to place a kiss on his rosebud mouth, sliding slender phallus into him, to show him _how_ much his god thought he was beautiful, was worthy. When Apollo pulled back from the kiss, the oracle shifted his hips and lifted his legs; Apollo paused to put them on his shoulders, and admired the way the boy’s curls caught the light from Apollo’s aura, the way his eyes were not closed but fixed upon Apollo, looking at him in the moonlight slanting through the window. 

As he thrust, slow and soft, savouring the luxury of it, Apollo slowly leaned forward as much as he dared to push his mortal’s body, and lifted a hand to caress those curls, cup that statue-perfect face, with eyes that held the sky. 

‘Your beauty rivals Ganymedes,’ Apollo whispered. 

‘Not where your father can hear you,’ the boy cautioned archly, and tensed around Apollo, making him gasp for pleasure, then give a breathless huff of laughter, taking the boy’s legs from his shoulders so he could lean down closer, lips to the boy’s pale ear. 

‘I would never let him have you, you are _mine_.’ 

_Then_ , the mortal finally noised, a squeak on the breath of a gasp. ‘Yes!’ he said, breathless. ‘Faster, more—oh, _Daddy—_!’ He threw his head back, and clutched Apollo’s shoulders. ‘Ffff _fuck me, fuck me **yes**!’ _

Apollo had never been spurned on like this by a boy, and it fired his blood in a way he’d never imagined; he found his teeth digging into mortal flesh, leaving a bite, and it only made the boy come to his apex harder, clutch Apollo harder, whisper ‘yes’ in an unending litany of prayer to him and Eros as his body pulsed around Apollo’s, endless waves of pleasure, not like any other boy’s. He would not tire, if pleasured well—and Apollo could pleasure mortals very well. He lay with the mortal until nearly dawn, and couldn’t bear to part from him. 

‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder,’ the oracle said, pushing him out of the bed and kissing his temple. ‘Go to work, Daddy,’ he said, leaning on Apollo’s broad back. ‘I’ll be waiting here when you get off, and then you’ll get _off_ ,’ he added, with a low giggle. 

‘I thought you were trying to get me _out_ of bed, kouros,’ Apollo murmured, and gave his new boy a lingering kiss, feeling the mortal’s weariness, despite his pleased mood. ‘Go to sleep, my lover,’ Apollo bade. ‘You are tired, you must rest.’ 

‘And eat,’ the mortal said, yawning hugely, but still winding his arms around one of Apollo’s nuzzling him. ‘Have a good day at work, Daddy.’ 

The first light of dawn lit upon his hair, and Apollo admired how messy and worked over he looked, and how unashamed he was, to sprawl covered in bites and bruise-kisses and seed, smiling faintly as the sunbeams fell on his skin, caressing him the only way Apollo could, from his chariot. 

\- 

When the oracle got up, it was noon; Meg was glad she was home, because the mortal had a nasty bite on his shoulder, and Hercules was horrified and worried immediately—completely not recognising it. With a huge smile, the northern boy patted Hercules’ shoulder. 

‘Shhh,’ he said. ‘Shh.’ And then he giggled. 

‘Meg? Is he poisoned?’ 

‘By come, maybe,’ Meg said, and Hercules went red. 

‘Meg, that’s not polite to say! I mean, I know he’s… um, a little… you know, foreign, but—you can’t just imply he’s a whore, Meg!’ 

The boy was taking the bread Megara offered him, and the grapes, and went over to sit on the floor in a patch of sunlight. ‘Mmmm,’ Meg said, watching the bliss on that face, the way he tilted his head in the sun. ‘Wonderboy, that’s a love-bite. I’d say _somebody_ paid our guest a little nighttime visit.’ She called over to the boy. ‘Who bit you?’ 

‘Apollo,’ said the boy, smiling dreamily. ‘He fucked me all night long.’ He yawned. ‘ ‘s why I’m so tired.’ He continued eating. ‘Is there water? Wine makes me sick.’ 

‘You know, we really need to start teaching you Greek,’ Meg said, after pouring him some. She was rich enough to afford slaves, but Meg was still paranoid about Hades finding her, and having slaves meant Pain and Panic. 

‘I know,’ said the boy, taking the offered cup. ‘I’m not very good at languages. Ironic, considering my other patron gods are of the silver-tongued variety.’ He took a long sip. 

‘Gods… plural, of the silver-tongued variety?’ Megara asked, cautiously, folding her arms. 

‘Hermes and… Loki Silvertongue, Loki Changeskin, from the north?’ the oracle looked worried. 

‘ _Ohh_ ,’ Megara said, relieved. ‘Oh, there’s a silver tongue from the _north_. I mean, of course. You’d need one too, wouldn’t you?’ 

‘Is… there one I’m not aware of, here?’ The boy got to his feet, curious—and wary. 

‘What… do you know about the dead?’ 

‘The dead? Um… I mean, where I come from, there’s stories about the dead rising and drinking the blood of the living sometimes, but….’ 

‘Eeesh, that sounds disgusting.’ 

‘They’re pretty sexy, actually. It’s complicated. But what were _you_ thinking of? Gods?’ 

‘Everyone’s got a death god,’ Megara said, as the oracle came back over to her, and she arranged herself on a sofa. The oracle didn’t lounge, he sat with his feet tucked under him. 

‘Hermes is as close as I’m willing to get,’ the boy said, worrying his lip. ‘I’ve, um, had too many close calls.’ He didn’t make eye contact, rubbing his upper arms like he was cold. ‘Besides, my—my former spouse was—um. Sort of. A priest of Dis Pater.’ 

‘Oh yikes, you poor kid.’ 

‘I like your boy,’ the oracle said, offering the change in subject. Meg laughed. 

‘Yeah, isn’t he decorative?’ She slanted a gaze at Wonderboy, who was… not exactly watching them, but obviously curious about what they were saying. 

‘Very. Do you rub him down with oil for parties?’ 

Megara nearly spit out her mouthful of wine, managing to swallow it before laughing. Hercules was looking confused, but relieved. 

‘What are you two talking about?’ he asked, amicable as he leaned on one hip. It had started out a little shaky, but they were laughing now, so that… that was good. That was a good sign. 

‘What a big handsome lug you are,’ Megara teased, enjoying the blush. She didn’t have long to enjoy it, Phil was finally up; he paused at the oracle. 

‘We finally get a slave?’ 

‘He’s a guest, Phil,’ Megara said, not putting too fine a point on it. The oracle was studying Phil. 

‘You never seen a satyr before? Eh, probably not, what am I saying, you’re--’ 

‘Puck,’ the oracle said, smiling. ‘That’s what we call them where I’m from.’ 

‘Whoa, Phil!’ Hercules held him back. ‘Hang on. Meg, what did he say?’ 

‘He said “Puck” is what they call satyrs, where he’s from.’ 

Phil calmed. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Sure. Fine. Not my fault that language sounds insulting. Why can’t the kid learn Greek?’ 

‘He’s trying,’ Hercules said. ‘I think he just got here. Anyway, he’s an _oracle_ , Phil.’ 

‘That explains the love-bite,’ Phil muttered. ‘C’mon, kid, speaking of, _you_ got training.’ 

‘Yeah,’ the oracle chimed in, ‘Go on, Apollo wants his morning show.’ 

Megara laughed, translating. Hercules went red, and Phil joined Meg’s laughter. 

‘Yeah well, can’t disappoint the guy, he’s the only god that I’m still in good books with. Come on, Herc.’ 


	3. Card XIX: The World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You have found your home._

Apollo watched the boy all through the day—it wasn’t hard, the oracle was intent on finding sunlight, laying in it. He went with Megara to market, and she taught him the names of things as she went along, bought him clothes and things. By the time the sun was highest, the oracle was able to request things, and ask what things were called, and greet people.

Then, Apollo saw him ask Megara to let him go somewhere alone, and only Apollo saw him, furtive and hiding, settle somewhere hidden and pull a stolen knife from his pocket. He dug a shallow hole with his hands and made a cut on his thigh, buried the blood with a simple prayer.

‘For Loki.’

Apollo watched him more carefully, more protectively, and caught Hermes as he passed by, later in the afternoon.

‘The oracle with the hair of many colours,’ Apollo began.

‘Oh!’ Hermes said, grinning as he flew beside the chariot. ‘Yeah, what a doll, right? He’s under my stars so tight you’d think he was my kid—he’s not, by the way.’

‘Hm,’ Apollo said, frowning in disapproval. ‘He stole something today.’

‘Really? Huh, thought he’d stopped doing that.’

‘He gave it to someone he called “Loki”,’ Apollo went on, trying to sound more casual than he felt.

‘And, let me guess,’ Hermes said, giving his brother a quizzical look. ‘You think I know who that is. Or are you just mad because he _stole something_ , gasp! Horror! Pretty boys _breaking the law_ , oh _no!’_

‘Hermes,’ Apollo ground out. Hermes was undeterred, as always, grinning.

‘I saw your love-bites,’ he taunted. ‘You _like_ him, don’t you?’

‘ _Hermes_.’

‘Going to bring him home and keep him? You’ll have to hide him in your room, you know how Dad is about anyone prettier than Ganymedes...’

_‘ Hermes.’_

‘All _right_ , all right, I’ll go ask around.’

Apollo watched him go, and clicked his tongue to the horses. Midday was over, it was time to start the descent.

-

Megara was pretty sure the kid had stolen something, but she wasn’t sure exactly what it had been; when the oracle came back, he was all smiles, and they broke bread together while sitting across the road from the temple to Apollo.

‘He said they’re stupid to think he only likes athletes, that He wouldn’t think _me_ beautiful,’ the oracle said, staring hard at the temple’s door attendant as he vengefully ate his gyro.

‘Be careful with him, kid, gods break more hearts than they save.’

‘I don’t have a heart to break,’ the oracle said. ‘I just like being fucked by my gods.’

Megara had… no idea what to say to that. People didn’t _talk like that_ , in Greece. A boy would never admit to that, not so openly, not so brazen. ‘You, uh, you shouldn’t say that kind of thing, here.’

‘I know,’ said the oracle, unapologetic. ‘But nobody can understand me but you and the gods, so I don’t mind.’

‘That’s a good way to get Zeus’ attention.’

‘I don’t know if that’s a bad thing,’ the oracle said thoughtfully, kicking his sandaled feet.

‘It is if you don’t want Hera to curse you.’

‘Oh I’d fuck Hera too, can’t we just have a nice happy threesome?’

Meg choked on her lemonade, and spent several minutes coughing while the oracle patted her back.

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘sorry, I’ll talk when your mouth is empty from now on.’

-

They… adjusted, to the northern boy. Herc wouldn’t hear anything from any neighbour against him, not that any of his neighbours were so inclined, in that part of town. The boy, however, never gave them a name, and so they just called him Oracle.

‘Why don’t you have a name?’ Megara asked, about a week into their knowing the oracle.

‘Names have power, I don’t give mine out to anyone, anymore.’

Anymore. He made little comments like that, comments that Megara never pushed, but recognised. This past… lover? Master? It was hard to tell which it had been, but whoever it was, whatever they were, Oracle was trying to forget them, to make himself unrecognisable to them.

He washed with water, he drank water, he prayed to the sea, and feared it not at all. Megara asked him about that, when they were sitting on the sand.

‘Of course I fear the sea,’ he said, laughing. ‘It’s just that this one seems like a gentle, mild sea, compared to the one I know. Where I come from, ships sail out until they can’t see anything but water, and our sea is called Pacifica, and she is full of volcanos and storms, and great heaving tons of _life_. She’s where we all came from,’ he said, tears in his eyes. ‘And to where we shall all return, at the end of things.’

‘Northerners are mad people,’ Megara said to Hercules, who was starting to pick up words here and there, of Oracle’s tongue.

‘Why?’

She told him. He looked over at Oracle, as he walked along the shore, laughing as the tide took the sand from beneath his feet and he fell into the water.

‘I really wish you could teach me his language,’ he said, for the nth time. Megara could speak and understand Oracle, but it wasn’t because she knew his language, it was blessing. You couldn’t share those.

‘You two have been doing pretty well teaching each other, Wonderboy. I heard you say good morning to him yesterday.’

‘Yes,’ Hercules said, a little proud of himself. ‘And I know the words for colours now. They have so many colours, in his language! His hair is _six,_ did you know that?’

‘I… did not know that.’ Megara had never discussed colours with him before; he kept that kind of talk to Hercules, who he was now approaching.

‘What colour is this?’ he asked, pointing to the end of his hair.

‘Red.’

‘Yay! Good!’ He turned, pointing to his back, which was… ‘What colour is this?’

‘Red—oh, oh no, that looks painful….’ Hercules gently wrapped his cape around the boy’s shoulders.

‘The worst part isn’t the pain,’ Oracle said, not quite understanding Hercules, but using context to guess. ‘It’s the itching that comes a few days from now.’

‘Maybe you can ask Apollo to heal it for you,’ Megara suggested.

‘What makes you think Apollo and I talk that often?’ Oracle asked, archly.

‘You’re a screamer,’ Megara replied, ‘Water?’ She offered the skin, and Oracle took it, like she knew he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hercules is surprised at how many colours there are because Ancient Greeks only had words for four visual colours, since Ancient Greeks interpreted colour more synaesthetically than we do in modern English. Oracle having separate _names_ for so many colours, and experiencing colour purely visually and describing it literally, would be very alien to everyone from Hercules' culture.


	4. Card I: The Magician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A person who has learnt how to master their own fate._

The Oracle started following Hercules to training. He didn’t watch, exactly, he seemed distracted and fervent, nervous. Hercules wasn’t sure what to make of it.

‘Y’ask me, he’s workin up to somethin’,’ Phil said, as Hercules re-hydrated after another set of laps.

‘Working up to what?’

‘Eh, Idunno. Barbarians are weird.’

Hercules wondered about it all day, but he knew that in evenings, Oracle wouldn’t talk about it, he’d just flirt with Hercules when asked. Hercules asked Megara that night, if Oracle had told her anything about it.

‘I think he wants to do sports with you,’ she said.

‘Oh,’ Hercules said. ‘Why didn’t he ask?’

‘In case you haven’t noticed, you’re a pretty intimidating athletic partner.’

‘I’ll encourage him,’ Hercules said, glad he could find a way to directly address the problem, and help. He always wanted to help.

The next day, he told Phil about it.

‘Eh, leave it, you’ll spook him.’

Oracle was drifting off, edging around the track to the other end of the field, toward the bars. He looked at them longingly.

‘Hey Phil?’ Hercules said, trying to watch without watching. ‘Can we, uh, leave that side of the stadium alone, for a while?’ Maybe if they let him have some space to himself, he’d try something. Oracle was strange and always covered himself up, he was feminine that way; Hercules had never seen him take off his himation, but he did see the way Oracle walked—already with the stoop of an old man. Or a slave. It was why people always thought he was one.

As the morning went on, Oracle tried, slowly, to do some stretching. He sat and stretched, and had to tell himself to count, and then count slowly, and be patient. It was so hard. Whenever he tried to make his body do anything, he was sharply reminded just how far he’d fallen, how stiff he’d gotten, how atrophied. It was enough to make him want to cry and give up.

But Hercules came here every day, and all this equipment was right here, and Oracle finally had time to just do whatever, no matter how long it would take.

He had to get almost-naked to do it, first, that was the nerve-wracking thing. _Gods, please, I am trying so hard, I am so scared, please help me._

The sun pierced through a cloud, caressing his shoulder. Oracle tried to take strength from that, and removed the fibula holding his himation on, laying it on the grass to use as a yoga mat. He stood, straightened, and turned toward the sun. _Okay_ , he thought, inhaling slowly, _Sun Salutation, best I can remember. Deep breaths, slow, straight._

He couldn’t remember the entire thing, but he realised the breathing and the counting and the straightening his back were where he needed to start. _It’s okay,_ he thought to himself, _it’s okay, baby steps. Baby steps. I’m trying. I can try again tomorrow._

Hercules watched him, moving slowly, holding positions. He’d never seen Oracle’s limbs before, only his soft, elegant feet. They were so pale they looked like marble, and it seemed that the rest of him was, too. Pale and soft and thin.

‘What is he doing?’ Phil muttered, which pointed out that he, too, was captivated. Hercules wondered if he was captivated in the same way.

Oracle had progressed to trying pliés, preferring them to lunges, and, encouraged by how much the sun was shining on him, he used the low bar nearby to balance, trying a careful, slow arabesque. He was still extremely wobbly, and his form was terrible, but he kept reminding himself that he was trying, and he could try again tomorrow, and that the important thing was breathing, and counting, and patience.

He wished he had some music to listen to.

The arabesques seemed like the most he wanted to try, and he lay down, tired, and looked up at the sky, and tried to relax, and breathe, and be kind to himself.

_Apollo thinks I’m beautiful already. That’s enough. I’ve been sick for a long time. I am trying, I did try, and that means I did a good job today._

He didn’t know when he dozed off, but the sun was warm and he woke up hearing Hercules calling his name, and feeling the sun on his face. Hercules was crouched beside him, smiling.

‘Food,’ he said, feeling strange not saying the proper meal names; but Oracle had explained to Meg that his people ate three times a day, too (which made them a little more civilised than Hercules or Meg had been raised to think); but that Oracle slept so fitfully that he was never around for various meals, had gone hungry as a child because of sleeping through meals, and so had started simply calling all meals ‘food time’.  Besides, Oracle insisted, it made learning the language easier for everyone, if they ‘simplified it down’—a very barbaric view, but Oracle did not seem to mind

Today, Hercules found new foods with the meal Meg sent along, and was curious what Oracle’s people called them. Sometimes, the word for something was almost Greek. Sometimes it was so far removed as to be unrecognisable. Oracle said this was because both his and Greek were descended from the same language.

Meg had included some figs. She’d noticed that Oracle grew nervous if he couldn’t tell what a food was, and had packed figs for him, as she had packed cakes for Hercules. They spent the meal practising names for things.

‘Τρωγάλια,’ Hercules said, and Oracle nodded.

‘Τρωγάλια,’ he said, saying it slowly, but only because he was being careful to pronounce it absolutely the same way Hercules had. He held up his fig. ‘ _Fig.’_

Eheu, they’d come upon another of those things where Oracle’s language was either too specific or viewed things differently enough that there was some kind of difference he was seeing that Hercules wasn’t. They were both the same word, to Hercules—why were they different to Oracle?

‘Τρωγάλια,’ Hercules said, touching the fig also. Oracle frowned, then smiled, setting his fig down and taking one of the cakes, putting them both next to each other on the little cloth the food had been packed in. He cuped his hands around both. ‘ _Dessert._ Τρωγάλια.’ He pointed to just the fig. ‘ _Fig_.’ And then just the cake. ‘ _Cake.’_

Aha. This happened a lot—and Hercules was glad Oracle seemed to have more experience with learning other languages than he did. And Oracle was from a different people—Hercules thought immediately that the fig and the cake were the same, because they served the same purpose right now—but Oracle’s mind worked differently. He was a very _exacting_ man, and his language was _specific_ , as was his view. He picked everything to bits, seeming to enjoy it; truly a facet of Hermes’ blessings upon him.

Oracle liked explaining things, it seemed to make him happy. And he knew _so_ much. He knew more than both Plinys about the world, and had words for _everything_. He knew complex Greek words, and sometimes didn’t need a word translated at all.

He chattered constantly, and after asking why he spoke even if Hercules couldn’t understand him, Oracle said it was the best way to learn a language—he was learning a lot of Greek by listening even when he couldn’t fully understand. It was how children learned their native tongue, he said, and adults could learn that way too, or at least, it didn’t _hurt_.

So he chatted about everything and anything. When they were done eating, Hercules went back to train, and wondered what Oracle would do, today. Usually, after lunch, Oracle slept. It wasn’t a bad idea, the late afternoon was always very hot. Oracle drank lots of water, they hadn’t had to teach him to do that; Meg was surprised, because neighbours had advised her to make sure the pale barbarian drank enough, as barbarians did not like water and did not understand heat. Oracle drank lots of water, however—a waterskin had been one of the first things he asked for help acquiring, and he carried it at his hip regardless of where he was going. He also laughed in delight and understood the Greek way of describing that water had a taste, and that spring water was best, agreeing entirely.

‘He’s not a bad kid,’ Phil said.

‘I wonder what he was doing this morning,’ Hercules said.

‘Something athletic, but slow. Maybe he used to be an acrobat. Weak as a kitten, though.’

‘Yeah, he said he was sick for a long time,’ Hercules said. ‘He has a disease, something that can’t be cured.’

‘That’s a shame. Why’d Apollo go and do that to him?’

‘He doesn’t blame Apollo, he says it’s because a mortal shape can’t always take being the shape of a god, and he was made in the shape of a god. He won’t say which one.’

‘That’s some hubris.’

‘I don’t think it is, is the odd thing,’ Hercules said. ‘He’s not proud, not like that. But he _is_ proud, in a strange way. He tried to explain it once, but Meg couldn’t even really understand it.’ Hercules looked over at Oracle, who was sitting still in the pose he used when he was praying, and looked away. ‘He’s _alien_ , but he worships the same gods as we do.’

‘Yeah, go figure. Where are his gods? Did they kick him out?’

‘No…’ Hercules said. ‘No, they didn’t. He worships one of them. Loki. He makes jokes that Loki and Hermes should be the best of friends, because they’re both tricksters.’

‘Huh.’

-

Hercules wished he could ask Oracle what he’d been doing, but the walk home was mostly Hercules listening to Oracle sing, or both of them walking in silence. Today was no different, but Oracle seemed more cheerful, much more than he had been the past few days. When they got home, Hercules finally asked.

‘What did you do today?’

‘Yoga,’ Oracle said. Meg paused.

‘…That word doesn’t have a translation. What is it?’

‘It’s a way of exercising and connecting spiritually at the same time. It’s actually not from my people, it was shared with us by Hindu people—they live far, far east and south of here. I also did Ballet, a little bit, because I used to be a Ballet dancer. It’s a type of dance from, well, another culture of Northerners that isn’t the same as mine.’

Hercules and Oracle both waited patiently while Meg translated all of this. Hercules found he was rather interested in _this_ part of Oracle’s culture. ‘What kind of sports do they do, in the North? Do you play any?’

Oracle laughed. ‘I don’t compete,’ he explained. ‘I dance. Celebrate my body and being alive.’ His face fell, as did his raised arms. ‘I didn’t like my body until recently,’ he said softly, then frowned, angry. ‘No, that’s not it,’ he said, half to himself. ‘That’s wrong. I _did_ like my body. _Other people_ didn’t.’ He tried to calm down. ‘But it’s all right now,’ he said, with a little nod. ‘It’s all right.’

Meg didn’t translate that, listening to what wasn’t said. ‘What changed? Coming here?’

‘Easier to show you,’ Oracle said, and took off his himation, unpinning a shoulder of his chiton and pulling it down, showing a long, precise scar tracing across his chest. He let them both look, rather proud of it. ‘Do you have surgery, here? Where a healer cuts you open to take out something?’

Megara recoiled. ‘I… I know healers sometimes cut limbs off, but what… what could they possibly have cut… off.’

He watched it dawn on her. She looked from the scar up into his eyes, searching his face.

‘I was made in the shape of a god,’ Oracle reminded her, terrified but trying to stay calm, stay composed. ‘I am a boy,’ he couldn’t help adding.

He did his own laundry, that was all Meg could think about. He did his own laundry. He was terrified, he had a scar, _he did his own laundry_. She’d heard of… but he wasn’t, nobody would go that far to merely get an education, or replace a father in a war. This was _permanent_ stuff, this was _pain_. Sacrifice. ‘You… sure are,’ she said, not sure what to say. Shape of a god. ‘That god… wouldn’t happen to be the child of Hermes and Aphrodite, would he?’

He gave a little nod. ‘He blessed me,’ was all he said, with the conviction of a priest.

‘Some kinda blessing.’

He cracked a smile. ‘I am that most rare of things, a man who understands women completely.’

Megara was the one surprised into a smile, now. He was right. She was constantly dealing with comments and glares, but not from Oracle. Oracle kept up a running commentary on just _what_ he thought about people and how they treated her, seemed to cut right through people’s masks and games with his sharp eye, and sharper tongue.

When he got fluent in Greek, there would be a reckoning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i show off my surgery scar at the slightest provocation, because yes i am proud of it, and yes i want people to know i'm a TRANSman. i am saying this here because i am. so tired. of readers thinking that it's not a transman writing this, from his own experiences.


	5. Card IV: The Empress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Spring._

Winter had finally come to Greece. Oracle set immediately on alert.

‘What’s going on? Why is it so cold?’ Megara asked, the morning of the frost.

Oracle knew, and his eyes were filled with purpose.

‘Persephone is missing, and I know where she is. We need to go to Olympus. _Now_.’ He got up.

After months of training with Hercules, he was muscled now, but still dressed the kinaidos, which had gotten even more so, with painted lips (though he mixed the carmine with kohl, making an unnerving rather than appetising colour), eyes lined in kohl, and knee-high boots of soft leather (though it was again unnerving black, not white). Hercules had gotten used to the idea that people would assume they were lovers, and he had to admit it was tempting—but they had mutually decided it was forbidden, neither wanting the wrath of Apollo roused.

When they walked through the gates, Oracle bold and quick as ever, Hercules started after him, catching his shoulder, afraid for him. ‘Oracle, wait. Wait.’ Oracle, however, had already been spotted by the worst possible person—Ares, whose dogs immediately surrounded him, growling and salivating.

‘What kind of painted Celt barbarian have you brought, Hercules? A plaything?’

‘I know where Persephone is,’ Oracle dropped it the way oracles didn’t. ‘And I can get her back.’

He waited out the laughter.

‘You?’ Zeus said. ‘Surely you mean your master, Hercules.’

‘My _master_ is Loki Skinchanger, Fixer Of Gods’ Problems. My _master_ is Apollo Soothsayer, Prince of Healers. My _master_ is Poseidon Wavedancer, Bearer of Aphrodite. My _master,_ sir, is not _Hercules_. Hercules is my _friend_.’

Hercules had never seen Oracle so _bold_ , so naked, so honest; but something in his heart fired and made his cheek flush, at being called Oracle’s _friend_. He’d had so few friends, in his twenty years… and Oracle said it like it was as great an honour as it felt.

Zeus drew back, stunned by such a speech. ‘ _You_ are my son’s new kouros?’

Ganymedes stared openly, looking Oracle up and down. ‘Why do you hide beneath your shawl, mistress?’ he asked, shifting slightly in a way that was meant to draw attention to his oiled muscles.

‘Because my body is shown to others at _my_ will, and no one else’s, _honeylamb_.’

Ganymedes nearly dropped his cup; but before he could formulate reply, Oracle was addressing all the gods and goddesses, businesslike and sharp.

‘I shall need the strongest spider-silk, woven into a length of fabric about _so_ wide, and as long as the length of a gymnasium. I shall need six days’ meals worth of bread, and three tokens the value of three silver coins. And Hercules’ help, of course,’ he said, turning to look at Hercules. ‘If that’s all right with him.’

‘Of course it is,’ Hercules said immediately. ‘I’ll help you however I can. You have my sword, and Pegasus—’

‘I do not solve problems with swords, Hercules,’ Oracle said softly, with that worrying smile. ‘I solve them with _thoughts_.’

‘Spider silk you can have from me,’ said a small, trembling voice, and Oracle, quite apart from recoiling, gasped softly in wonder, eyes lighting with adoration, as he saw the monstrous form of Arachne, half-spider and half-man as she was, sitting by the warmth of Hestia, who was one of the only gods to tolerate her presence without flinching. ‘I will gladly give it.’

‘I was hoping it would be you, O Beautiful One,’ Oracle said, in a voice that trembled with something Hercules now knew was pleasure, sharply reined. But Arachne thought it mocking, yet hoped…

‘Do not mock me.’

‘I do not mock so brutishly as to falsify compliments, my lady Spider,’ Oracle murmured. ‘But oh, I would be honoured to receive cloth of gossamer you had made.’

‘What are you going to do with it?’

‘Ah-ah,’ he said, grinning at her and winking mischievously, ‘ _that_ would be telling.’

‘I can give you bread that will last six days,’ Hestia said, and pulled a loaf from the oven, steaming hot, and wrapped it in a towel for him.

‘Thank you, Lady Warmheart,’ Oracle said, bowing as he took the loaf. Hestia’s dimples showed as she smiled at him. ‘Now,’ Oracle said cheerfully. ‘Just the three tokens left. They can be coins, but they need not be, only valuable.’

‘What trick are you playing, babe?’ Hermes said, fluttering down and circling Oracle, keen mind aroused and playful with curiosity. ‘It’s dangerous for a mortal to go down there. You’ll never get out.’

‘Spare me the gloom and doom, Uncle H,’ Oracle laughed. ‘There’ll be my fill of it when I go down Underground.’

Hermes saw those little gears turning, knew more than most how _much_ was locked away inside that mind, he could see it shifting always, like a knot of a thousand snakes. If anyone could outwit Hades, it was Oracle. That is, if he didn’t get killed. Hermes gave him three coins made of stars.

‘Good luck, kiddo.’

‘I will do my best,’ said Oracle in return, ‘and it will be enough.’

-

\--

-

‘Wrap the end around your arms, and hold fast,’ Oracle instructed, and Hercules did so, the cool silk giving like no other fabric he’d ever seen, _stretching_. ‘Three hard tugs and start pulling up. Got it?’

‘Yes, Oracle, I promise.’

Oracle was wrapping the other end around his limbs, tangling himself in it with artful design, naked but for the silk itself, his pale skin shining with the moonlight, limned in it. ‘Good.’

It was just sunset, and they had little time before Apollo would come. Oracle knew Apollo would try and stop him, and needed to work fast; but yet, he did not rush. He wound with care and precision. There was much on the grass between them, when Oracle was done, and said only, ‘Stay there, and hold fast.’

‘I will,’ Hercules said, trying not to worry as Oracle walked away from the chasm, put the coins Hermes had given him under his tongue, and ran straight for the hole, _leaping_ into the terrible darkness, and falling, the tail of the silk sash falling behind him, before it suddenly pulled taut—but instead of snapping, it _stretched,_ and Hercules felt Oracle unravelling, through the silk’s bond, watched his body tumble gracefully down the length of the silk as it unwound itself, out of sight. Hercules could still feeling him unravelling, then stopped, the silk swaying from the movement, and Hercules held fast. It trembled, and then got lighter, and was still. He had climbed off of it, Hercules knew. He was gone.

Hercules, sat down to wait, his satchel of food on the ground beside him, and held fast. If this was all Oracle ever asked of him, he could do it. He wished he could go with Oracle, but he understood what Oracle needed. It was, Hercules reflected, what Oracle always asked of him: only to hold fast. When the barbs of the neighbours turned on Oracle as he and Hercules walked together in the street, Oracle asked Hercules only to hold fast, and not reply to them. When they had been flying up to Olympus, Oracle had asked Hercules only to hold fast. Whatever insults and threats were thrown at Oracle, he had, always, asked Hercules only ‘hold fast’.

Hercules could hold fast. He could anchor his friend in the storm, as he always did.

‘Gods of the Northmen,’ Hercules prayed, looking up at the moon, ‘please protect my friend. I am not your son, but he is. I pray you protect him from Death himself, and help him bring Persephone home. He is brave, like you, Loki. He is clever like you. I do not understand him, but I love him, and this, we have in common. Lend him your cleverness, your fortitude, and help him safely home with Persephone.’

The moon did not answer, because the moon never did. But off in the distance, a wolf howled, and Hercules wondered. Especially when a raven came to rest upon the ground, near him, and regarded him with the disturbingly intelligent gaze of those birds.

_Odin, the Allfather, has two ravens, Thought and Memory, and he sends these to flight every morning, to circle the worlds, and bring back news to him. They watch over his warriors._

‘I sure hope you’re one of Odin’s ravens,’ Hercules said, because the alternative was a very Bad Omen, indeed.

The raven only walked closer to the edge of the hole, looking in it and then looking back at Hercules, sitting there with the silk wrapped around his right arm, wound around his hand so he could not drop it, and tilted its head, inquisitive.

‘He went to rescue Persephone from the world of the dead,’ Hercules explained, and went on to detail everything to the bird, just in case it _was_ bringing news to Oracle’s gods. When he finished, it flew away, and he barely saw its feathers in the silver moonlight—blue, Oracle would call it. Blue silver moonlight.

Three days. Hercules knew Megara was going nowhere near this place; but Pegasus could fly, and so was not afraid of holes in the ground. He had been fitted with a harness that let him carry food and water to Hercules, and notes on the ‘paper’ Oracle had taught her to make some months ago. It was much lighter than tablets.

And Hercules held fast. For three icy days, and three icy nights, he held fast, until, on the eve of the third day, he felt three sharp tugs, and began to pull, and pull, and pull, until, at the end of the silken sash, Persephone came up, shivering with fear but unharmed. The silk had been wound around her body, so that she could not let go, nor fall.

But of Oracle, there was no sign.

‘What happened?’ Hercules said, heart beating faster, relief turning quickly to horror. ‘Not—not that I’m not glad you’re safe, Persephone, but—’

‘Who was he?’ she asked.

‘My friend,’ Hercules said, and Persephone saw the grief on his cheeks, and did not ask more. He returned her to Olympus, and Persephone did not speak, and declined to answer questions, sitting by her aunt at the hearth and staring into the flames, and not speaking to anyone. She said she ‘needed space’ and ‘needed time to process’ which were, Hercules knew, phrases she’d learnt from Oracle. Only Oracle spoke like that.

After three days and nights where she only ate and drank, and slept, and was often by herself on some lonely cloud, being alone, Persephone met Apollo after the sun had set, and asked him,

‘The boy said you were a healer of minds and hearts, that I should speak with you of my emotions as much as a broken leg.’

Apollo had been suffering for the three days, but he had let Persephone alone, as had the rest, at her request. Now, he did and did not wish to know the fate of his beloved. None returned from the land of the dead.

‘That is true,’ he said, having often listened to Oracle’s troubles, helping him. He had spoken often of how the brain is often in need of healthful pursuits, much like the body.

‘I am… he told me to be alone for three days and three nights, to attend to myself and myself only, and then to come talk to you about what happened, about my… my experiences, and how I feel about them.’

A rueful smile. ‘Yes, that sounds like my Oracle.’

‘Is he?’

‘That is what he calls himself, Oracle.’

‘He never told me what to call him, but he knew my name,’ Persephone said, half to herself, and settled down. ‘I am safe now, I am ready to speak on it.’

‘I am here,’ Apollo said.

She told him, and he listened, and his heart broke to hear it, as much as he grew proud of his boy for such bravery, such cleverness, such heroic acts as to sacrifice himself to save the Spring. He pressed down his own tears, his own heartbreak; but knew that Oracle would have thought of this, would have wanted Persephone to tell Apollo first.

‘He said to give you a message,’ Persephone said, at the end of her tale. ‘That he loves you, and that you mustn’t think he has stopped, no matter what happens, no matter what you hear, no matter what you see. You must remember he loves you, and trust in that. He has enough love, he will not run out. I did not understand, but now that I know he is an oracle….’

Apollo knew the words of prophecy, and he knew Oracle knew how to make them. He held the words close, even as they worried him. A Test of their love was coming, he could tell; he must remain on his guard, and not allow his temper to rise—that’s what Oracle was _really_ saying, was ‘don’t fly into a jealous rage’.

From Persephone’s story, Oracle had found her, hungry and prisoner in a terrible bedroom of dark riches, and had helped her escape, leading her through the shadows. He had wrapped himself in shadows, and tamed a night mare, and they rode them across the chasms of Dreamstuff and through the places were Night slept, past the horrible stone columns like farcical tree-trunks, the stone forest where Spirits practised howling and screeching, and he did not flinch, he was not afraid, and he sang away her fears, sang to keep them all at bay.

‘Oh, his voice,’ Persephone sighed. ‘So strong, so _joyful_ , I do not know how he did it, he never wavered, not once. He is not afraid of anything down there in the dark, Cousin! I cannot imagine how brave he is!’

He had shared bread with her, for three days, until the bread was gone, and they were at the quay of the ferryman. ‘Whereupon he pulled out two marvellous coins with starlight in them, and gave them to me, and told me to give both to the ferryman. The ferryman took both, he spoke to Oracle as though Oracle had promised him double fare, for taking one _backwards_ across Styx—one for fee, one to buy his silence.’

‘Why didn’t he ask for more coins?’ Apollo asked. ‘He could have asked for more, Hermes would have given them….’

‘He said he wasn’t taking me back,’ Persephone said, beginning to cry. ‘He said he was—he was _replacing_ me as prisoner of—of _him_.’

Apollo felt his heart break all over again, as much as a fire lit within his breast, of determination. ‘My brave kouros,’ he murmured, hiding his face in grief.

In the dead of night, after singing Persephone to sleep and tucking her in, Apollo went to his father, who was brewing a summer thunderstorm to wash away the frost.

‘He is a hero,’ Apollo said, in tears, though his voice managed to keep steady. ‘my kouros. He sacrificed himself to save her.’

Zeus paused, shaking the lightning off one hand before putting a hand on Apollo’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, m’boy.’ But he said nothing more.

‘Put him in the stars, Father,’ Apollo said, after a long pause in which he realised the offer wasn’t, as was usual, forthcoming.

‘He’s not Greek, son.’

‘That—that—surely that doesn’t _matter_ , Father?’

‘I would say it doesn’t, but he called upon his Northern gods in the doing. I can’t do anything about it. He’s seen as a hero to them,’ he offered. ‘In their way, he will be honoured.’

Apollo was beside himself. He had expected to have stars for his kouros, stars he could find comfort in, stars that would let the world know of his bravery. But, of course, Oracle had avoided the stage again. Why? He was a storyteller par excellence, he was not shy, nor retiring.

Apollo went away, and thought on it. He heard the fluttering of wings, and looked up to see not Pothos, as he’d been expecting, but the rarely-seen Hermaphroditos, looking strange with hair done up too big and sparkling, with paint glittering on his face like none other—at once, Apollo knew he was what Oracle named himself also: a drag queen.

‘Apollo. You have questions.’

‘Why?’ Apollo asked, not able to articulate the red, the hurt, the confusion, the anger and the grief. ‘Why did he not do it in our name? Why did he deny me this?’

‘And how would the mortals think of it, to see one so hated and unmanly, a _kinaidos_ , honoured as a hero?’

Apollo was silent, then, but angry. ‘He knew. He _knew_. He _designed_ this, all of this! And my anger, did he think of that?’

Hermaphroditos sighed. ‘Of course, darling. He knows your temper. Hence the message from Persephone. Did you get it?’

Apollo’s anger left him all at once, leaving him with what it covered: grief. ‘Yes,’ he said, and began, finally, to weep. Hermaphroditos comforted him through it, rubbing his back and arcing his great wings—largest of all the erotes—around the god of the sun, as he wept.


	6. Card XII: The Hanged Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You must reverse your view; or it may be reversed for you._

It was a year and a day before they saw Oracle again—a year and a day that saw Apollo and Hercules bond over their grief, and become fast friends, though never lovers. Apollo was too heartbroken to take another lover, he had become too used to his Oracle, who was like no other kouros in the world.

A year and a day, and a party was thrown to celebrate Hercules’ birthday.

As the sun finally set, a figure all in shadows, with hair all dark colours—Hercules saw violet, blues, and black, still practising Oracle’s language, not wanting to forget, not wanting to lose the only presence his friend still had in his life—walked in.

He wore not a chiton, but a strange, sharp black suit of clothes, that form-fitted to every curve of his thighs, and a strange tunic that was sharp and shaped, and covered him completely to the hips—all but his hands, long white hands with long black nails encrusted with tiny jewels. He wore a torc around his neck, over the folded collar of his inner layer of clothes, and rings upon his every finger. His boots were to his knee, and had buckles that jingled when he walked, and toes so pointed, and capped with white metal, that they looked like they might be used as weapons. His moon-pale face was painted with black lips and black around his piercing blue eyes, and his face glittered when he moved, with mica powder. All black, and covered with Hades’ riches, he could only have come from—and be here because of—one god.

All eyes turned on him, for he was the only shadow in a world of light, and he smiled with alarmingly white, straight teeth, raising his glass to his friend.

‘Cheers, friend,’ he said, and Hercules lit up.

‘Oracle?’

‘In the flesh,’ Oracle said, grinning—and he had long and pointed fangs, much like a cat, now.

‘But—you—’

Megara stepped in front of Hercules, cutting him off, her voice sharp and eyes narrowed. ‘You’re _working_ for him. Oracle, you—how _could_ you! I told you about him, I warned you!’

‘Megara, love,’ Oracle said, leaning against a column. ‘It’s splendidly kind of you to worry, but I _did_ come up here because I wanted to celebrate a happy occasion with you.’

‘How could you possibly have gotten _permission_ to just—just—’

‘I’m more curious how you got in without an invitation,’ Athena said quietly, always one for rules. Oracle pulled an invitation from the inside of his overtunic, flashing it.

‘I _do_ have an invitation, as it happens; I am here on behalf of His Grace, the King.’ He bowed, and it managed to be slightly mocking. ‘He sends his felicitations on his nephew’s birthday, and hopes Hercules has many more.’

‘That’s… uncharacteristic of him,’ Hercules said, haltingly. ‘But um, thank you?’

‘Well, he doesn’t want to see you ever again, I think it’s _very_ characteristic of him,’ Oracle said, grinning at Hercules. ‘Now, I don’t know how things are here, but barbarians give their friend a gift on his birthday.’ Oracle said as he went up to Hercules, and pulled out a small packet from another pocket in his suit of clothes. It was wrapped in fine linen, and inside was a large, shining sphere of the finest amythyst, and it glittered in the light.

‘Oh,’ Hercules said, ‘is this…?’

‘A juggling ball. You said you were interested in the fairy-juggling.’

Hercules grinned. ‘I’ve been practising, but only with pottery. Nothing like… this is beautiful, Oracle. Thank you.’

Oracle smiled at him, and it was everything Hercules remembered. ‘You’re welcome, Hercules. Many happy returns of this day to you, as we say in the north.’

The party went on, and Oracle didn’t expect anyone to talk to him, but he listened well enough with his newly-sensitive hearing, and held a drink, despite not drinking it, and basked in the moonlight. Poseidon came up to him, and Oracle dove headlong into a delightful conversation about the Abyss, coral, and the many marvels of polychaete worms. Poseidon seemed happy to finally be able to talk to someone who understood, who appreciated, his realm, and kissed Oracle’s forehead as they parted.

Oracle then found himself sitting apart, enjoying the night, when Megara came up to him.

‘Are you… happy, Oracle?’ Megara asked, haltingly. ‘You seem… different.’

‘I am happy with my work, Megara. You remember how I hated to be idle. There’s _plenty_ of my sort of work, Downstairs.’

‘You haven’t eaten a thing,’ she said. ‘And you’ve been holding the same drink for hours.’

‘Oh, you mustn’t think that’s a sign I’m _unhappy_ , Megara.’

‘It used to be,’ she said, suspicious.

‘When I was human,’ Oracle dropped it carefully, and waited to see if she remembered. He’d mentioned vampires before, enough that she might put it together.

‘Huh,’ she said, smiling and plopping down next to him on the bench. ‘So, really, what’s between you and… him? No judgement,’ she said, using one of Oracle’s phrases that came up when he was coaxing her to open up about something.

‘No judgement?’ he said, raising a pencilled brow.

‘None at all.’

He waited until she wasn’t swallowing. ‘We’re fucking.’

‘Oho,’ Megara said, smugly. ‘Knew it.’

‘Knew _what_ , exactly?’

‘That you’d manage to seduce him. Seph says you traded yourself, all this heroic stuff. Everyone’s in mourning, and you better watch out for Apollo, he’s been _inconsolable_.’

Oracle didn’t look guilty. ‘Good,’ he said.

‘Good? Seriously? He’s _miserable_.’

‘But everyone thinks what I did was heroic,’ Oracle pointed out. ‘I’m not glad he’s hurting, I’m glad people think I’m a hero. I’m a kinaidos, remember? We never do heroic things. Try to keep up.’

Megara understood, suddenly. ‘Kinda like how women can’t _not_ be interested in a guy?’ she muttered, and Oracle chuckled.

‘Exactly so,’ he said. They watched the party in silence, both scanning the crowd for Apollo’s presence. When the sun god did appear, he looked fine and handsome enough, but sad. Hercules and the others pointed over to where Oracle was, and he parted the crowd, excusing himself from admiring gods and goddesses to come over to Oracle and Megara’s little shadow. He slowed as he approached, and Oracle smiled.

‘Hi, Daddy,’ he purred, just how he usually did when he saw Apollo first thing in the evening. ‘Miss me?’

Apollo caught him up in an embrace, kissing him, and Oracle dropped his drink, melting into the embrace, kissing back as good as he got, realising how much he _had_ missed this god. Apollo held him at arm’s length, looking him over.

‘But you are different, Oracle. Where has your beautiful colour gone?’

‘I’m the night-shift now, my sugar,’ Oracle said, grinning wide enough to flash his fangs. Apollo went quiet.

‘Oracle… you haven’t a pulse.’

‘No,’ Oracle said, with no particular inflection, ‘I haven’t. The living can’t leave the Underworld, remember?’

Megara saw the shock, saw the horror, saw the _realisation,_ and knew Oracle did too. Apollo cupped Oracle’s face.

‘What has he _done_ to you? Where is your _life?’_

‘Ah-ah,’ Oracle said, putting his hands over Apollo’s. ‘Nobody does _anything_ to me unless I _tell them to_ , big boy. I’m a vampire because I want to be, His Grace didn’t even know what a vampire _was_ before I told him.’

‘But… why, Oracle?’ Apollo was at a complete loss.

‘Because I wanted to,’ Oracle said, a little challengingly. ‘Because it _pleases_ me. Besides,’ he said, a little more than a little afraid, but refusing to let it rule him, even as his hands trembled as he traced Apollo’s face. ‘Now, I can be awake all night long…’

It had occurred to him, Apollo and his friends reacting to his new species with horror, with revulsion. Vampires were undead, were corpses made animate by strange mysteries. Megara hadn’t understood how Oracle could find them sexually appealing, and Oracle was fine with that. Now, he could be a monster boy—and that’s what he’d really wanted to transition into, all his life.

‘You are strange, creature of the night,’ Apollo said softly, knowing with a fullness in his heart at the feeling that Oracle still wanted him. He kissed Oracle softly, and Oracle nipped his lip, a sharp pain drawing blood, and then he was kissing deeper, the taste of blood on his lips spurring him on, and when Apollo broke the kiss to gasp for breath, he saw his beloved’s eyes were no more blue but red and glowing, and his skin pale as death.

‘You’re _delicious_ , lover,’ he hissed, ‘let me have more.’

Apollo wanted to see what would happen—and Apollo wasn’t afraid of death, he was a god, he couldn’t die. Little did he know that’s exactly what Oracle was counting on, and his kouros struck his throat like a viper, his fangs plunging in deep, before something flooded Apollo’s blood, some liquid pleasure that brought him to his knees, and he held tight to Oracle as his kouros drank from him for the first time. There was something erotic in that, and Apollo’s cock stirred to hardness, his pulse thundering in his ears in a way that had little to do with the ichor he was losing, and everything to do with his kouros’ sucking mouth.

Oracle pulled away, and was _glowing_ , cold as moonlight, for a moment, before it dimmed to nothingness once more. Apollo felt the bite-marks healing, and hated once more his inability to sport love-bite bruises. More remarkable, however, was the way Oracle’s eyes were glowing the colour of fresh-spilt blood, his pale face flushed like one in high fever, eyes dark and sparkling.

‘Kouros…’ Apollo said, breathless. ‘Come to bed.’

‘Ah-ah, business _before_ pleasure, my dear,’ Oracle said, and Apollo realised, then, that he was no more a boy. _That_ was what had changed. The playful boy, full of high spirits and ever ready to come to bed, was gone. He had… grown up, Apollo realised.

‘You truly are a man, now,’ he said, the words bittersweet on his tongue.

‘All boys, except one, grow up,’ said Oracle, kissing his cheek. ‘But that’s a tale for another time, lover… If,’ he said, taking a step away, ‘you want a lover that is a _kinaidos_.’

‘You could never be kinaidos. I will not hear of it! Not after what you—’

‘Mmm,’ Oracle hummed, to drown him out. ‘ _I_ say I am kinaidos, because I _am_ kinaidos, Apollo. High boots, covered limbs, painted face and all. You take me as I am or not at all, no bending _your_ rules of masculinity around me.’ He folded his arms.

‘Oracle. You cannot be, you are a hero, you deserve—’

‘ _I am what I am,’_ Oracle sang out the song like a weapon, and Apollo fell silent—Oracle had never sung.

‘ _I don’t want praise! I don’t want pity!’_ His glare was fierce.  
_‘I bang my own drum!_  
 _Some think it’s noise, well, **I** think it’s pretty!’_

 _‘And so what,’_ he snapped, _‘if I love each sparkle and each spangle?  
Why not try and see life from a diff’rent angle?_

_Life’s not worth a damn ‘til you can shout out loud, “I am what I am!” ’_

Oracle hadn’t meant to sing. It hadn’t been his idea, it had just—popped out. But it felt _right_ , in a way that singing normally didn’t, and he wasn’t worried, like he usually was whenever he sang before (it was why he only sang little folk songs, rather than big emotional songs like this one).

On the point of his argr, however, he had worked so hard—and still did work hard—to be himself, proudly and without compromise. Even living with Hercules and Megara, as kind and understanding as they tried to be, had not been without compromise. Even Apollo had required compromise of certain things; but _Hades_ , Hades did not require compromise. Hades understood, in ways even Oracle was surprised to find true. He required no compromise, nor explanation. He let Oracle do as he liked, he provided whatever materials for paint and pigment that Oracle asked for, without making comments about Oracle’s use of them. If Apollo had noticed a change, and called it manhood, then Oracle was fine with that—he did feel more grown-up, now, certainly—but if Apollo was going to take it further, Oracle would not have it. Perhaps he had been too easy-going about this; but then again, perhaps there had been no other way.

Apollo was stunned; Oracle had sang before, but never like this, never with such passion, or _anger_. Apollo had never heard a song so full of focussed anger, defiance, and pride.

And everyone had heard. Oracle met their mixed reactiosn of scorn, disdain, and outright disgust with a proud and defiant chin; but looked for his own gods, among these, looked for Hermaphroditos, found him in full drag with hair as high as stormclouds, his enormous wings the kind of black that iridesced in the light with a rainbow. Hermaphroditos _glittered_ , and he cut through the crowd to come to Oracle’s side.

Then there was Poseidon, the mother Oracle had adopted as his own; who looked just as alien and out of place as Hades did, here among human-shaped beings. He was only _marginally_ human-shaped, with big dark fishy eyes that caught the light strangely, and scales shimmering slick in the light, his skin perpetually wet, his long white beard green at the ends and bedewed with spray. He, too, came to Oracle, with a different quickness. Hermaphroditos moved like a bird, all conspicuous speed and delicacy; but Poseidon came forth like a whale, with speed that surprised and blindsided, and would mow over anything in its way with a kind of impersonal tone that said clearly it wasn’t about you, you were just too small to be noticed, as a human might disturb a mote of dust by passing by it.

Hercules fought a little harder to get through the crowd, but he came, and hugged Oracle tightly, and Oracle hugged back, tighter, and Hercules was surprised—for all the strength that Oracle had gained, it had never been _that_ strong. ‘Oracle, are you all right?’

‘Just setting some boundaries,’ Oracle murmured, still looking at Apollo. ‘You don’t get to tell me what I am, Apollo, god or not. And you don’t get to change the law of your culture, either. I am kinaidos. I will always be kinaidos. And I am _proud_ to be kinaidos, no matter what anybody tries to make me feel of shame. I will _never_ be anything but kinaidos. Even when I died and was raised from the dead this soulless being, I was _still kinaidos_. Even if I slay a thousand monsters, rescue a thousand princesses, win a thousand marathons, _I will do it as a kinaidos and still be one in the end_. It is _who I am_. You cannot change that, only accept it.’

Apollo looked uncertain, and _felt_ uncertain. This was uncomfortable for him, because he was, in his every fibre, a prince; and princes were never good at uncertainty.

Oracle waited, and ached with the knowledge that he might be rejected, and it would be crushing, in a way his heart had only broken once before, and still not quite healed. Rejection was new to him, but he would take it, even from a god. He had supports, he told himself. The fall of one column did not mean the fall of the temple, if the others stood strong. Rejection was not a reason to compromise _what he was_.

Apollo had his own struggle. For the time Oracle had been gone, he had made sure to write a song of his heroic deed, had fought so hard to keep talk of his unnatural nature from spreading, had done everything in his power to make sure his kouros would be remembered with honour. And now, Oracle was throwing it in his face, was rejecting it as worthless, reinforcing everything Apollo had worked hard to undo.

 _Have faith in my love for you, no matter what you hear, no matter what you see._ Wasn’t that what Oracle’s words had meant? That Apollo should… but…

_You cannot change that, only accept it._

Have faith in my love. _Have faith in **me**_. Oh, Apollo had completely misinterpreted everything, because of course, that was the tragedy of a prophecy—you _never_ understood it until you had acted on it wrongly. Apollo had ignored everyone—had never thought, not _once_ , that Poseidon and Hermaphroditos might be of help, might have something to say. Had refused to accept what had been before him, refused to face the judgement of his family, of his people, as being consequence of their law. He had… ignored it because it was too upsetting, too _frightening_ , to contemplate how Oracle could accept it as true, and still hold his head up. That was… no wonder Oracle could face Hades without fear—he already lived in a terrifying world, had already come to be proud of something that was supposed to be a shame.

‘You are so much stronger than you ever seemed,’ Apollo said, quietly. Oracle finally smiled again, at that.

‘You understand, then.’

‘I… think I’m beginning to.’

Oracle smiled. ‘Good.’

‘Oracle…’ Apollo began, and reached out to touch Oracle’s face, ‘Do you still want me, now that you are so transformed?’

Oracle hugged him. ‘Of course I do,’ he said, with that bright smile. ‘You’re still my _god_ , Apollo. And you are welcome to join me whenever you see me on earth. But, do me a favour?’

‘Anything, Oracle.’

‘Laugh once in a while, would you?’ He threw his arms around Apollo’s neck. ‘For a guy who carts around the reason human beings are happy, you’re a gloomy bastard.’

‘So says the man who works for the King of the Underworld!’

‘ _His Grace_ has a sense of humour, at least!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'The Fairy Juggling' is contact juggling, invented by Michael Moschen and made famous by the movie Labyrinth.


End file.
